


making nice

by blueshirts



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Pre-Slash, bard is so deep in denial he should be called bard of rivertown, get it? because the nile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueshirts/pseuds/blueshirts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the Battle of Five Armies, Bard tries to form some semblance of a plan for the future of his people. If only Thranduil would stop distracting him..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After what would go down in memories as the Battle of the Five Armies, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and honored the lives lost in the best way they knew how-- by celebrating and making merry. Bard was glad to hand the reins over to the dwarves and the elves, to let them hash out their tension over quantities of wine versus ale while he came up with some semblance of a plan to carry his people through the winter.

He slipped away from all the bustle at the heart of Dale, where dwarven, elven, and human voices were amplified by joy and sorrow (and copious amounts of alcohol), off to the fringes of the old city. He leapt over debris and scaled crumbled walls, searching for anything that might be of use. He found plenty, as the previous inhabitants of the city hadn’t had time to gather up their belongings before they fled. Bard tried not to dwell on that and instead told himself that they would have wanted their things to be put to good use.

A clay pot buried beneath a fallen thatch roof caught his eye. He lifted it up and tilted it towards the light of his torch, and was dismayed to see only dust inside.

“Are all human kings scavengers, Bard, or is it only you?”

The elf Thranduil appeared as if by magic from the shadows masking the doorway of the ruin, and in his surprise, Bard dropped the clay pot. It shattered into countless ruddy shards at their feet, and Thranduil looked on in amusement.

Realizing that he was expecting an answer, Bard brushed his hand off as shamelessly as he could and cleared his throat.

“I wasn’t--,” Thranduil raised a single dark brow and Bard realized that he was, in fact, doing exactly what it seemed, “-- No. Kings don’t scavenge.”

Thranduil hummed, a hint of a smug smile on his lips. Bard darted past him as respectfully as he could, and decided to cut his search short and return to the celebration. He wasn’t eager for Thranduil’s company. The elf seemed incapable of pleasant conversation. Unfortunately, Thranduil stayed only a step behind him. When he spoke, his voice betrayed his continued amusement.

“Even with all of your unorthodox habits, you have garnered my respect.”

Bard inhaled sharply, but stayed his tongue from saying anything about Thranduil’s own strange habits. He uttered his thanks and quickened his pace, only to be stopped by Thranduil’s hand upon his forearm. In the torchlight, the contrast between the elf’s frigidly pallid skin and Bard’s sooty cloak was somehow less apparent. Everything glowed warm and orange.

“I wish to offer my assistance to you. If there is anything my people or I can do for the city of Dale, do not hesitate to tell me.”

Bard’s first reaction was one of disbelief. The King of Mirkwood wasn’t known for his generosity, and yet here he was, seemingly sincere in his offer of unconditional help. Bard took in Thranduil’s wide-open eyes, his knitted brow, and finally, his weak, yet undeniable attempt at comfort in the form of the hand upon Bard’s forearm. Bard swallowed thickly and, with the same care one might have when confronting a large beast, extricated himself from Thranduil’s grasp.

“Why? You owe me nothing.”

Thranduil’s hand, still extended but resting on nothing but air, curled. He looked away. If he were any other being, Bard might have said he shrugged, but Bard knew better than to suspect Thranduil of a gesture so common. Instead, the elf made a small noise of consternation and resumed walking back to the heart of Dale. Bard fell in line behind him.

Later that night, while he stoked the flame in the hearth of the humble house his children had chosen from among the intact structures, Bard would wonder whether he had imagined the entire episode.

 

The next morning, however, while the townsfolk and dwarves slept off the drink from the night before, Thranduil sought Bard out again. Bard had begun removing rubble from the cobbled streets of the city. An hour in, he’d already determined it to be boring and backbreaking all at once. Thranduil’s presence, though annoying the night before, lessened the tedium considerably. He looked down his nose and commented on Bard’s less-than-stately appearance-- from the scruff on his face to the beads of exertion on his brow-- but his words weren’t offensive. If anything, they were endearing, as they belied Thranduil’s apparent unease with amicable conversation.

Bard’s retorts were few and far in between, but they were effective enough to get Thranduil to roll up his silken sleeves and lend a hand. Bard found himself laughing without significant cause at the sight of the king elf bent over and rummaging in rubble. Indignant, Thranduil straightened and scowled at Bard, which really only made him laugh harder.

“What is the cause of your mirth, bowman?”

Bard bit his lip.

“Oh, nothing. Lack of sleep, maybe,” he hesitated briefly, and wondered if Thranduil might take offense before deciding that he didn’t really give a damn and saying, “You might be able distinguish rubble from road better with your hair out of your eyes.”

“I can see just fine,” Thranduil’s lip curled in distaste and he bent back over without another word. Bard feared he had touched a nerve and had irreparably tarnished relationships between human and elfkind when, unexpectedly, Thranduil’s sneer reappeared and he spoke up again.  
“Let us say, for a moment, that my hair is obscuring my vision. What, then, would you suggest I do about it?”

Unsettled by the question, and perhaps not thinking entirely clearly, Bard walked over debris and rubble to face Thranduil.

“Look at me,” he commanded, though not with real weight. He knew he couldn’t command the elf king to do anything he didn’t wish. Still, Thranduil leveled his gaze with Bard’s, a trepiditious look on his fair face. Bard winked, then walked behind Thranduil and, with the sure hand of a single father of two girls, he plaited Thranduil’s cornsilk hair, only a few errant strands escaping the braid. He faced Thranduil again and was hit with a wave of regret-- were dirt-covered leaders of men allowed to lay hands on elves without some form of punishment?

It didn’t help his fears that Thranduil looked even more inhuman with his hair pulled back. His cheekbones were thrown into sharp contrast in the morning sun and his eyes gleamed bright and sharp. His cheeks took on a slight pink tinge, whether in anger or some other emotion, Bard didn’t know. He cleared his throat and gathered his wits about himself.

“Well, er, that should help you see.”

Bard went over to another pile of rocks that needed to be cleared, missing in his haste the brief moment in which Thranduil’s hand stroked his plaited hair with undue, inexplicable care.

 

One of the elder dwarves-- Balin, he thinks-- approached Bard as the sun reached its noon epoch and asked if the celebrations could continue into the new night. Bard’s eyes snapped, unbidden, to the elves of Mirkwood as they saddled their horses and yawned through retellings of the events of the night past. As Bard looked at the elves, he felt something stir inside himself. He nodded numbly at perhaps-Balin and dropped his gaze back onto the parchment he was using to take stock of resources. Bard reasoned that he’d only assented because everyone was still hurting from the battle and in need of some cheer, but he had to admit it didn’t hurt that Thranduil would have to stay another night. After all, Bard did need to work on trade relations with the elves of Mirkwood, and what better way to discuss business than in the optimistic atmosphere of a party?

 

Indeed, Thranduil seemed to be thinking along the same lines. An elf messenger announced his desire to meet with Bard before Bard got the chance to arrange his own summons. Bard entered the elf king’s tent just as the sun disappeared behind the mountain, silhouetting it in soft crimson light, and as the first flagons of ale were poured.

Oddly enough, the first thing Bard noticed upon entering his tent was that Thranduil’s hair was no longer straight. The blonde locks fell over Thranduil’s shoulders in waves-- a result, Bard knew, of wearing a braid for too long. He bit back the smirk that threatened to overtake his face and, instead, bowed.

“King Thranduil,” he greeted, only a hint of irony in his voice.

“King Bard,” Thranduil levelled, his eyebrow once again cocked.

Bard sighed, “I do wish you wouldn’t call me a king.”

Thranduil sniffed daintily and cast his eyes toward the cushion to his side. It was plainer than the one he was seated on, but that suited Bard just fine. He dropped into it with an involuntary exhale of satisfaction. Elves must have learned to harness the clouds when making cushions, because he’d never sat on something so soft.

When Bard turned again towards Thranduil, he saw he was being watched with naked intrigue.

“It is undeniable you have not lived a life filled with the comforts of a king,” Thranduil’s voice was unabashed, as if he were commenting on the weather outside.

Bard looked away, towards the fire crackling in the center of the tent. He thought with an absent mind that it was probably unwise to have a fire in a tent, but then again, who was he to presume he was wiser than an age-old elf? Bard shook his head, ridding himself of errant thoughts and getting back to the task at hand.

“King Thranduil, I’ve come to talk about--”

Then it was Thranduil’s turn to sigh, “Really, Bard, our people are celebrating. Can we cease the solemnity for just one night?”

Nettled, Bard fell silent. The only sound that could be heard within the tent was the crackling of the fire and the faroff co-mingling of dwarven, human, and elven jubilation. For minutes they sat, saying nothing, until Bard cleared his throat.

“So, you liked having your hair out of your face?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you.”

“It was no problem, really.”

For a beat or two, neither spoke up. Then, Thranduil suddenly stood up and knelt in front of Bard. His face was so close to Bard’s, his piercing eyes only inches away, that Bard forgot to breath. It was only Thranduil’s own exhalation, near enough to tousle Bard’s hair, that reminded him. He inhaled deep, his eyes latched tight onto Thranduil’s. He couldn’t have looked away if he tried. Thankfully, mercifully, Thranduil gave in. He reclined slightly, and smiled.

“I think the partnership between our kinds will be one for the ages, friend.”

Bard laughed with unease, because that, he felt, was a bit of an understatement. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because some of you asked for a sequel. I was too excited to wait until I could get this beta-read, so please tell me if you catch any errors!

Bard awoke the next morning and was dismayed to feel the tell-tale aches and pains in his joints, not for the discomfort they caused him, but for the promise of a change in weather they held. Sure enough, a heavy fog had rolled in overnight. The torch fires were reduced to faintly glowing orbs, their light unable to penetrate the mist. Bard could only hope it would all dissipate with the rising of the sun. He feared what another day in the presence of the elf king might do to him, to his mind, and he knew that such a fog often delayed the travels of men.

Luckily, Thranduil had more pride than the average man. He chuckled at Bard when he dared ask if the fog might make the elves prolong their stay, and told Bard not to worry.

“After a millennia, I am well able to navigate my way to Mirkwood in any condition,” he leaned in, and with that smirk upon his face whispered, “I could even do it blind.”

Bard resisted the urge to roll his eyes and nodded. He thrust his hand forward to take Thranduil’s, forcing Thranduil to retreat to a respectable distance. Perhaps he was imagining it, but the elf seemed almost put off by the gesture.

“Well, I am glad we were able to come to an agreement last night. Hopefully our trade partnership will be long lasting and beneficial to both human and elfkind.”

Thranduil bowed his head, and Bard was grateful he no longer had to look into his eyes-- so grateful he was almost unaffected by the words that followed.

“I will send an envoy in a fortnight to bring you to my palace. There, we will put our deal in writing,” Thranduil looked up again, his normally icy eyes lessened in frigidity. One could almost say that they had thawed., “Until then, I bid you farewell, King Bard.”

Bard swallowed, and managed, “And I you.”

He watched dumbly as the woodland elves loaded up their wagons and steeds and rode off, unable to move until their shadowy forms had long disappeared into the dense mist.

Fourteen days crawled by seemingly at a snail’s pace, and sadly, the people of New Dale’s prospects had not improved. Once they’d awoken from their drunken stupor and realized this, they turned to their king. They asked Bard how they were expected to fare without homes to keep out the winter chill and without food enough to last them through to spring. Bard had been worrying about these things for days, weeks, and had not yet reached a solution so it was a potent mix of relief and subsequent guilt he felt at the scheduled arrival of Thranduil’s envoy. He quickly chose someone to take care of both his children and his people in his stead while he met with Thranduil-- a woman who’d proven herself worthy on the battlefield and able to drink the stoutest men under the table in the impromptu taverns. And then, Bard was off. He promised to return soon, but his children only laughed and asked that he bring them back something nice from Thranduil’s palace.

Bard’s thoughts grew darker and darker as he and his elven guides went deeper into Mirkwood. The fog had cleared by then, but it wouldn’t have mattered in the gloom of the forest. The elves still laughed and joked merrily, unawares or just indifferent to Bard’s mood.

After what seemed like hours, Bard noticed that their path was on a slight decline. Soon after, they were the midst of a valley. There, the sun was able to penetrate the leaves, illuminating the woods and setting colorful flowers ablaze. A heady, familiar fragrance filled Bard’s nostrils. It was deep and floral, and the loveliness of it put an unbidden smile on his face. His gloomy thoughts of uncertainty abated, and the next peal of elven laughter that reached his ears was no longer an annoyance but something inviting. Bard was still smiling when they reached the entrance to the Palace of the King of Mirkwood.

The envoy stopped laughing, shedding mirth for reverence. Bard followed them into the vast underground cavern, awed by its magnificence. It must have take thousands of years, he thought, to build such a place. He was suddenly reminded of just how atypical a king he was, and how alien Thranduil’s life was to his own. He forcefully pushed that thought aside, determined to appear at ease for his reunion with the elven king.

The moment he spotted Bard, Thranduil rose from his throne. Imposing figure though he was, with his crown atop his head and his robes fanning out behind him, the illusion was shattered as he bounded down the steps only to stop a pace from Bard.

“You’re late,” he said, frown on his face.

“Am I?” asked Bard, because it was hard to tell passage of time in Mirkwood.

Thranduil nodded carefully, “I’d feared the envoy had been overtaken by spiders, or well, anything else.”

Bard scoffed. Suddenly all his fears about not quite measuring up to Thranduil vanished. What did all that matter, anyhow?

“Nothing ails me except hunger, my friend,” Bard clapped Thranduil on the shoulder, “Please, show me to your cellars. They’re legendary among my people.”

The corners of Thranduil’s lips lilted upward in a pleasant, if somewhat reticent, smile.

“I hope they live up to the legend.”

Some time and a couple bottles of wine later, Bard found himself sleepily lounging on a low bench. He supposed he was more affected by pure elven alcohol than he might have thought, and all he desired at that very moment was peace and quiet and sleep. He certainly didn’t want any witnesses to his drunkenness, especially Thranduil. Yet Thranduil remained, taking his place on the ground in front of Bard’s bench (after getting a nearby elf to fetch a pillow to place there, of course).

Their eyeline was very nearly level and Bard noted he could see all the minutae of Thranduil’s face, from the tinge of gray in his brows to the unexpected smile lines adorning the corners of his eyes. He focused on the latter and willed himself not to fall asleep in the presence of the elven king.

“Thranduil,” he dared to whisper, garnering a lyrical hum in reply.

“Want to know something? You’ll have to swear you won’t tell anyone.”

Thranduil looked left and right in the exaggerated fashion of one too tipsy to control their actions.

“I’m listening.”

Bard rolled over and flung his hand on forehead preemptively, as his head often ached just thinking of what he was about to divulge.

“I haven’t the faintest idea on how to be a king. For Eru’s sake, I was a bargeman up until a month ago!”

“Oh, stop whining.”

He heard the tell-tale rustling of elvish robes and felt his bench creak as Thranduil leaned his elbows upon it. He felt an almost imperceptible brush of hair against his ear and cheek and when he removed his hand and opened his eyes, he could have mistaken Thranduil for a deity and his golden hair as his halo. Could have, if it weren’t for the playful grin on his face.

“You know how good of a king you’re going to be, just as well as you know that fishing for compliments is quite unseemly.”

Though he was grateful for Thranduil’s words, Bard could not focus on them. He had just inhaled, and underneath the aroma of the wine, he smelt that scent again-- that one he’d smelled in the forest that had brought the smile to his face. At once he knew its source, and at once he was overcome with an overwhelming desire that both scared and excited him.

Bard did what any good king would do, and silenced his fears with one bold move. He surged forward as if drawn by some supernatural force. He was only faintly aware of his fingers entangling themselves within Thranduil’s hair by the chill of the crown against his hot skin.

His lips were achingly close to the elven king’s but he restrained himself. He had to know first, had to confirm he wasn’t just imagining everything and the attraction wasn’t one-sided.

“Thranduil--,” he breathed, and then could say no more. Thranduil’s lips met his, and Bard both heard and felt the sigh that escaped him. Bard could not guess whether it was of relief or satisfaction, as his mind was rather occupied.

At last they broke apart, Bard panting for air and both of them with mad smiles on their faces.

Bard felt compelled to say something, if only to keep from pouncing upon Thranduil then and there, in the heavily trafficked cellars of Mirkwood.

“So,” he began, still out of breath, “about that trade agreement...”

Thranduil bared his teeth in an ignoble fashion, looking at once like the elf who had terrified wargs and goblins alike in the Battle of Five Armies, but only succeeded in sending a thrill through Bard’s body.

“Must we speak of it now?” he growled.

Bard raised an eyebrow.

“It’s important to me, and to my people. I cannot see what we have to offer in return for your generosity, except perhaps friendship.”

“And I cannot think of anything more valuable than friendship,” Thranduil sighed. He withdrew slightly, to fix his crown which had gone crooked after the kiss. Bard chuckled and lowered himself to the floor. It wouldn’t stay fixed for long, he decided, and surged forward again.

  
They kissed until Bard’s knees began to ache from the stone floor. He could’ve happily stayed there, but Thranduil insisted they find somewhere more comfortable, befitting of two kings.


End file.
